


Mr. Overhill and Mr. Underhill

by itstonedme



Series: The Hobbit Chapter Title series [4]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin finally is reunited with his old friend and colleague on the set of <i>The Hobbit</i>.  The fourth in an ad hoc series based on the chapter titles of J.R.R. Tolkien's <i>The Hobbit</i>, chapter four of which is titled <i>Over Hill and Under Hill.</i> First posted on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/92740.html">here</a>.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: complete fiction.  No disrespect intended to any actual persons.</p>
<p>Feedback always appreciated.  Happy New Year!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Overhill and Mr. Underhill

"Is he here yet?" Martin asks between takes with such frequency that the script assistant has taken to simply shaking her head the moment he looks her way.

"What's the hold up, I wonder?" Martin mutters during the next break, a fifteen-minute lull so that equipment can be moved. He picks up the mobile he's left on his chair and turns it on. Nothing. 

"His plane was late leaving Sydney, from what I understand," the script aide says. "Shouldn't be too long."

Martin is already sending Benedict a message in his labored all-thumbs texting: _where thre fuk are you?;_

No reply. Just like that old Beatles' song.

"Not yet?" James asks as he breezes by. 

"I'm so looking forward to meeting him," Adam gushes as he trails James. Despite six months on set, Adam still hasn't moved past inordinate amounts of awe whenever an actor of any renown drops by. 

"You sure there's not more to this relationship than you're letting on?" Richard rumbles, flicking his Thorin braids. He's stopped to hang over Martin's shoulder, checking out the phone screen."You're like a school girl waiting on her first crush." 

Martin just frowns at him.

*

The long day has become longer still because, despite knowing that Benedict has now arrived in Wellington, Martin must wait yet longer while his friend is greeted, showered, orientated, script provisioned, measured, photographed, situated and fed, not in that particular order. All there has been time for has been a brief phone chat that has gone something like this: 

"You're here!"

"I'm here."

"I can't believe it."

"I can't either. I figured the plane would simply fly forever using air-to-air refueling."

"It's a bugger, that. But you're here."

"I'm here."

"I can't believe it."

And round it goes. So much waiting, so little conversation. The script assistant puts her hand on Martin's arm sympathetically, and Martin rings off with a contented sigh.

*

They finally catch up the next day, Martin in feet and costume, having been driven from his sound stage to where Benedict is getting the motion capture tour. "Mr. Overhill!" Martin exclaims and pads forward for a hug.

"Very good, Martin," Benedict smiles, having paused for only a moment because his mind is rather Sherlockian when it comes to connecting dots. They embrace affectionately but gingerly because there's a costume and wig to respect. "Although I believe you are the one leaping over hedgerows whereas I dwell within a great cavern. Mr. Underhill is more apt." 

"You are too late to the party," Martin grins, holding Benedict at arm's length so that he can drink him in. "Claimed that one for myself."

*

That evening, there is a cast dinner of assorted principals and production people at one of Wellington's more casual eateries where a room has been set aside for the group. Martin has somehow found himself at the far end of the table, much to his disappointment. "Mr Overhill," Benedict calls down the table to get his attention. 

James leans in from Benedict's other side. "Actually, around here, he's known as Mr. Underhill," he says.

Benedict leans back towards him. "Yes, well, his is but a little hill whereas mine is a mountain. He'll have to relinquish, I'm afraid. Dragon's rights."

"Did he say that?" Martin asks later when the tattle gets told. "I suppose he thinks he has a point. In fact, I _know_ he thinks he has a point. This is usually the problem."

*

It takes a few more nights before they are able to get away on their own, which in this case is at Benedict's flat. They've just finished their take-out dinner which they enjoyed on the couch, each of them at either end with a plate under their chins, paper napkins dressing their chests and feet in each other's laps. The better part of a bottle of Kiwi red has been dispatched and a second one is on standby, taking the air. Benedict tosses a stapled copy of script notes at Martin where it lands between the sofa back and his thigh. 

Martin picks up the pages and squiggles into his end of the couch. "I had hoped we could talk about anything but _Hobbit,"_ he says.

"'Fraid not," Benedict replies, leafing through the pages. "I have to catch up. Shan't take long. Here we are, page 15."

Martin sighs and rifles through the pages.

"I'll start," Benedict says and slides into Smaug. _"You seem familiar with my name, but I don't seem to remember smelling you before. Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?"_

Martin flexes his shoulders, shakes his head and perks up. _"You may indeed! I come from under the hill, and under the hill and over the hill my paths lead – and through the air! I am he that walks unseen!"_ Can I stop right there?" he interjects. "It's this matter of 'overhill' and 'underhill.' I'm hearing you claim that you are Mr. Underhill now, but really, it's somewhat established that the title…"

Benedict has placed his script on his lap. "Martin," he interrupts. "Your logic bears a frightful amount of diva, if I may say. You might have been 'underhill' back in the shire, but you've now left the shire far behind. You must remember that there is an entire film that will bear my name."

Martin flaps his script down onto his own lap, including Benedict's feet, and raises his hand. "Two points," he says, holding up his index finger. " _All_ the films will bear my name." He raises a second finger. "And might I remind you that Tolkien himself named me Underhill."

"Deee-vaaaahh," Benedict fire-breathes, turning back to the script. _"So I can well believe, but that is hardly your USUAL name,"_ he smaugs.

Martin flaps his script twice and stares at Benedict for a moment before resuming his lines. _"I am the Clue-Finder, the Web-cutter, the Stinging Fly. I was chosen for the lucky number."_ And I am Mr. Fucking Underhill," he adds.

_"Lovely titles,"_ Benedict continues without a beat, _"but lucky numbers don't always come off!"_

Martin scowls and shifts back to the page. _"I am He that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. I come from the End of a Bag, but no bag went over me!"_

_"Those don't sound so creditable..."_ Benedict replies. 

_"I am the friend of Bears and the guest of Eagles! I am Ring-Winner and Luck-Wearer, and I am Barrel-Rider!"_

_"That's better!"_ comes Benedict's slow and Smaug-like smirk. _"But don't let your imagination run away with you!"_

"And I am Mr. Fucking Underhill!" Martin shouts, tossing his script against the back of the sofa.

Benedict pokes him with his foot and drops his script to the floor. "I have missed you, Watson," he smiles.

"And you as well, Holmes. I'll be glad when this is over and we can get back to England and our regular jobs."

Benedict lifts one of Martin's stockinged feet and begins to massage the bottom of it. "What's it like, wearing the prosthetics all day? As much of a nuisance as I've heard?

"I can't complain, not when one has to consider the hours of makeup some of the dwarves have to put with each morning."

"But not Richard."

Martin makes a dismissive noise. "Ears, wig, costume, that's it. He even comes kitted with his own beard."

"So any stories to tell?"

Martin cocks his head inquisitively. "Such as?"

"Such as stories, Martin. You know what I'm getting at."

"Oh, you mean stories like the stories about us?"

"Exactly," Benedict smiles.

"Well, there's a certain wizard who can't seem to keep it in his trousers, and on this set, there are a lot of trousers to be got into."

Benedict presses hard beneath the toe pad of Martin's foot and laughs. "I think I've discovered what you mean," he laughs. "He and I hadn't been acquainted ten minutes before he started to twinkle. And this was after he'd told me he knew my father back when time was born."

Martin grimaces. "The meaning of "knew" always gets a bit dodgy with Ian."

"Yes, well," Benedict adds, "it always got a bit dodgy with Dad as well." He smiles, brows raised.

"You watch out for Ian. He's a randy old bastard."

"With anyone we know?"

Martin fakes a whisper even though they are alone. "Rumor has it he's snared a bowman and an elf king."

Benedict brows go up once more. "At once?"

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Who else?"

Martin hesitates, wincing, smiling, wincing, smiling.

"Oh, do tell," Benedict laughs, shaking Martin's foot.

"No," Martin decides.

"Yesss," Benedict grins. "Richard?"

Martin frowns. "Why would you think Richard?"

"Well, look at him. Wouldn't you want a part of that action?"

Martin bobs his head backwards in disbelief. "No!"

"If you were _gay,"_ Benedict explains dramatically.

"But I'm not. And neither are you, or so I thought. And neither is he, I suspect. "

"Only a suspicion?"

"If he were gay, Ian would have ferreted it out by now." Martin stops, his memory caught on a moment he may or may not have shared with Ian on this very subject in a nightclub some months before. 

"He _has,_ hasn't he! That old queen has caught our Richard in his sights!"

For some inexplicable reason, Martin is suddenly feeling quite protective of his dwarf leader. "He's the model of decorum, whatever his preference. Hasn't been seen with a bloke or a woman the whole time he's been here."

"One of two conclusions, then. He's either discreet or abstaining. Much like myself."

"I believe 'abstinence' is not in your vocabulary. Even if it's solely due to your right hand. Or is it the left this week?"

Benedict pokes him with his foot. "With Amanda back in England with the kids, I imagine you're rubbing up against every door jamb and bed post over both islands." Benedict bends forward and kisses Martin's stockinged toe. "There you go. A little foreplay to set you on your way."

"You just kissed my smelly old sock."

"I did. Such is the fondness and high regard in which I hold you."

"I'm not giving up Underhill, no matter how many times you try to suck up to me."

"You say that now, but wait until I remove your stocking and suck on your big toe."

*

Several days pass before Benedict manages to escape motion capture and visit the dwarves in green screen. He shows up with the decay of the capture pads still displayed on his face, rendering him slightly measle-ish. He stays in the background as the dwarf contingent, which includes Martin, pretends to battle Orcs, all of whom are represented by suspended tennis balls that someone has inked with Pete's glasses. At the break, he comes forward to chat with Martin, who is in turn chatting with Richard.

"Thorin," Benedict says amiably to gain Richard's attention.

Richard turns, a great smile splitting his face. "Mr. Underhill," he says warmly.

"Piss off," Martin grumbles.

"Fantastic costume," Benedict admires, eyes scanning Richard from head to toe. "Does it weigh much?"

"Surprisingly, yes," Richard grins. "We're weighted under all of these wrappings. We had to train several weeks just to prepare for wearing them." He's already digging under his great coat and through the various layers to show Benedict.

"How many stone, do you figure?" Benedict asks.

Richard rambles off some amount, and Martin's head swivels from one to the other as they banter back and forth, their sole and lead hobbit completely ignored. "Gentlemen," he says, waving a hand. "Down here."

"How long does it take you to get into it?" Benedict asks Richard, ignoring Martin.

Martin frowns. He looks at Richard and frowns again. Back to Benedict, same frown. He walks away five steps in his big feet and turns to see if they've even noticed, which they haven't. 

And he frowns again as he begins to connect a few Sherlockian dots.


End file.
